Craig Heyne
i am the garden’s guardian i hope it will continue to flourish
i grew up in marshy waters and am used to eating moss and gnats
there is a mold in each book i write i hope one day it consumes each page
my mother never taught me to be a gentleman only a good person
so i grew despite it all
i watched a flower grow in the crack of asphalt
the sun barely fed it and yet the plant prayed to it
god, if it exists, planted me in a highway
my father didn’t want me to be tough he wanted me to survive
i feel like calling him now
when i am at my least survival
in my funeral home picking out the fabric
at my church picking out the blade or
at my home deciding what god would want me
i think my grandmother was god
i think i died at birth, or soon after
or late after, because i keep seeing myself
come through the birth canal and keep
apologizing despite it all, i figure
i am not a creation just a collection
of biology in ubiquitous perfection
the bones in my arm are nothing of a miracle
i have seen them before, on those days
when i am at my least, very least father
i cry into a mirror at the ripe age of nine
wondering if all chests are as hollow
if dirt is meant to surround us or hold us up
my father kisses my cheek, the sharp ends of
his beard graze my ear, and i already miss the pain
i still continue to wonder, and i remain so scattered
so i pray to the sun, and hope, hope to grow from this.